


A Boon

by featherloom



Series: Followers on the Road to Gondolin [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Male Friendship, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 02:44:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5989309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherloom/pseuds/featherloom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Tuor delivers Ulmo's message to Turgon in Gondolin, the elf king grants Tuor a boon.  Awkwardness ensues, Voronwë worries for no reason, and Tuor wins over everyone by simply being himself.  </p><p>This story was originally posted on Tumblr during the Silmarillion Read-Along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Boon

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fanfiction. Characters, places, and concepts from _The Silmarillion_ and other histories of Middle-Earth are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien's Estate and I do not claim any rights to ownership or compensation. This is just for fun and no harm is intended.

* * *

 

The message is delivered; the cloak has dispersed into a spray of snow and St. Elmo’s Fire. Turgon has given his response, and no one in the court looks less pleased than Idril herself, flanked by Glorfindel and Ecthelion, who whisper between themselves and cast worried glances at Maeglin, who leans against the throne like a great black serpent. Tuor wisely ignores him, although no one can miss Tuor’s obvious glances toward the princess. Now the time is come for Ulmo’s messenger to ask for a boon.

I have not yet lifted myself off the floor. I have not yet been granted permission, and for all Tuor’s tale of Ulmo’s directives, I have still done what is forbidden and led a stranger into Gondolin’s hidden valley. I expect death at any moment. I remain kneeling on the polished white crystal of the floor - mottled and cratered to resemble the Moon, I realize - and try to keep myself apprised of Tuor’s situation without raising my eyes from the ground. To do so would be a breach of propriety, but I will not allow Tuor to make a misstep in this court and fall with me. Only one of us need die today.

Turgon straightens to his full height on his throne, and I realize I had forgotten how tall and unassailable Turgon seemed; he must rise near eight feet into the air, the silver crown of the Noldor on his obsidian head slicing through the darkened courtroom. His long hair is braided through with silver and diamonds, and his robes are the same deep shade of blue as Tuor’s armor, as bright and alive as the sunlit open sea.

“Now that we have heard your tale, Tuor, son of Huor, messenger of the Valar, we owe you a boon.” Turgon makes a grand gesture with one hand. “Whatever is in my power to provide is yours.”

Tuor takes another quick glance he probably imagines no one sees at Idril, and for a moment I am terrified he will ask for her hand. As we neared Gondolin, I told him to expect an offer of a boon if we managed to make it to Turgon’s throne alive. I had reviewed what was expected and appropriate - a title, treasure, command over one of the King’s houses - but the possibility of us getting within the walls of Gondolin was so remote I failed to review what was inappropriate. I fear that his request will earn him scorn, if not the cliff alongside me.

“I may ask for any boon I choose?” Tuor asks. “Even if it goes against your laws?” O Valar. He is doomed. Maeglin shifts behind the throne, easing his sword from its scabbard, and I am surprised - I had never thought a danger in Gondolin might be cold-blooded murder. I am glad I told Tuor to go to my father’s house, as I instructed him to do before we entered this room. He will be relatively safe there.

Turgon narrows his piercing blue eyes, but Tuor, to his credit, does not waver beneath his scrutiny. “So long as the boon does not threaten the safety of this city and its people, you may ask for anything you wish.”

Tuor nods. “In that case, my lord, I wish for you to pardon Voronwë, my guide and guard throughout this journey. He has betrayed you, but he did so at the bidding of Ulmo, and I would not see him harmed for answering my prayer for assistance.”

I am stunned, and it seems the court is as well. Silence reverberates in the air around me, an unspoken pressure wave, and I find myself once again struck by the depths of Tuor’s compassion. So this was his boon. He would not tell me what he had decided upon; he probably thought I would attempt to convince him to pick something else. That I would have assumed it a lost cause, as I do now. To the King’s right, I hear Idril’s gasp hidden beneath a cough.

Turgon has gone still, but a satisfied smile blooms on his face. “Your boon is noble, Tuor son of Huor, but unnecessary. Voronwë is not to be punished for heeding the prayer of Ulmo. I would be disappointed if any of my people turned a deaf ear to his commands.” I want to tell him he should be disappointed, then, in himself, but I stay quiet. I raise my head as Turgon looks towards me, a frown on his face. He creases his forehead and squints, as if suddenly remembering I am there as well. “Voronwë, why are you groveling like a criminal? Rise.”

I scramble up and stand slightly behind Tuor, wishing his cloak was still here to conceal me. I am ashamed I still feel as though I require his protection. I did not always feel this way, but I have discovered briefer fires burn brighter, and I feel distressingly dim in his presence. “Thank you, my lord.” I answer breathlessly.

Turgon acknowledges me with a nod and then returns his attention to Tuor. “Young lord Tuor,” he begins, acknowledging his father’s rank, and his own, for the first time, “You must pick another boon. I cannot leave you unrewarded for your service.”

For the first time, Tuor looks lost, and the silent call for help he casts over his shoulder is wasted on me. Shaking myself, I silently tick my fingers off as I did when I was telling him of acceptable boons: Wealth. Status. Might. But Tuor shakes his head at me and rolls forward on the balls of his feet, as he is wont to do when he is thinking deeply. I realize that Tuor truly was intending to use my pardon as his boon and had never thought of any other request.

“Well … then .. I suppose … if you do not intend to harm Voronwë …”

Glorfindel takes pity on Tuor and throws a lifeline. “Perhaps you might ask the King to forge a great weapon for you? A trident, perhaps, as is befitting a servant of Ulmo.”

Tuor blinks. “Why would I need a trident here?” he asks. Glorfindel opens his mouth to respond and then leaves it hanging open, unable to provide a response. Ecthelion turns around to face the wall. Maeglin seems relieved at Tuor’s question; I doubt he would consent to forging the man any sort of weapon, pocket knife included.

“I think I will have … “ Tuor swallows; and rubs the back of his neck. He is embarrassed now, and I am at a loss. I was hoping he would accept the trident. Tuor feels along the edge of his tunic, made for him by the Grey-Elves of the North, and then straightens, as if he has made a decision. “I would like a bit of land, with a garden and some materials to build a house for myself.” Turgon’s court is very quiet now, but Tuor does not seem to notice as he ticks his needs off with his fingers. “And I suppose I will need a fishing pole, a decent one, and a knife or two so I can whittle wood for myself, and maybe some paper and ink so I can write. And some new clothes; mine are ruined and my cloak just vanished and - I - I - that is more than one boon. I apologize if I have offended.” He looks at me desperately. “Have I offended?”

When I calm myself enough to respond with decency, I shake my head. It’s Turgon’s turn to be at sea, and he is slumping in his throne now, held up only by his grip on his staff. Idril has been scribbling studiously in her notebook, probably taking down Tuor’s every request, and Maeglin’s mouth is working silently, trying to process Tuor’s thoughts. For Maeglin, humility is something that happens to other people.

“You brave endless danger and the constant pursuit of the enemy to save a people not your own, all while protecting the last mariner of Gondolin, and all you ask for in return is a … a … homestead?” Ecthelion has become very interested in the floor, and Glorfindel is watching Tuor with ever-growing fondness. He is probably trying to figure out what the man would look like dressed in gold.

“Aye, my lord,” Tuor responds, confused. The rest of the court seems baffled, perhaps even offended, by the humility of Tuor’s request, but it does not surprise me in the least. After months of travel with the man, I know that Tuor is a man of small needs and nearly nonexistent desires. I slip close to him and whisper in his ear.

“To preserve his dignity, the King must offer something better than that. Accept the trident, at least.” Tuor nearly shakes his head, but I squeeze his arm and add, “You can have it inscribed with the names of the Grey elves who raised you, the Edain who cared for you. It will be their memorial, and yours, after you are gone.”

At this, he brightens, and he relays this request to the king, along with the name of every Grey Elf, Edain, and Easterling he wishes inscribed on its shaft. Idril scribbles tirelessly, and I wonder again how Tuor manages to remember them all.

He adds my name to the end of the list, and I wish I had been permitted to keep my hooded cloak. I almost strike him, the lout. When Tuor is done, the room is silent, but the tone of the silence is tinged with warmth and the weight of respect. I know there are some Sindar in the room, and someone is weeping. Perhaps a name was recognized on Tuor’s list. Maeglin’s eyes bulge ever more with each name. The trident will take him months to finish properly. I will see to it that it is completed properly, I decide. That will be my first duty.

Turgon is stroking his chin, and nods at me. “Voronwë, you may also request a boon.” I get the sense that he wishes me to say something specific, and I feel I know what he wants. I bow deeply.

“My lord King, it has been my honor to serve the Lord Tuor son of Huor, liegelord of your brother the High King Fingon, for a season and a half. He has saved my life countless times, and protected me from those who would do me harm. I request permission to serve in his House from this point forward.”

Turgon nods in approval, but Maeglin can hold his malice back no longer. “What kind of boon is this? What will you do in eighty years?” Tuor tenses and Turgon turns a pointed glare to Maeglin, but I respond quickly.

“If my duty is only to guard a grave, then I shall gladly perform it for the rest of my days.” I have not allowed myself to think of what will happen when Tuor dies.

Tuor is shaking his head violently, but I am ignoring him. He should have let me rot in Sirion.

“If you are to serve Tuor's House, then he must have a House to begin with,” the King answers. He nods towards Tuor’s armor. “This raiment fits you well. Therefore, you are now the Lord of the House of the Wing.” Cheers erupt from the court, and I gain no small amount of satisfaction from Maeglin’s splutter, lost in the tumult. Idril is smiling warmly at both of us, and the King, reclining in his throne, asks for wine, intent on enjoying this little bit of ebullient chaos he has created.

Out of the corner of my eye I see elves, many of them Sindar, forming a line to beg permission to join his House. Tuor himself is at a loss. He turns to me, befuddled. “Can I sleep?” he entreats me. I laugh and take his arm in mine, turning us towards the line of eager elves. “In time, my lord, in time.”

“You may not call me ‘my lord.’”

“I must now.”

“You will not! And neither should they!” He waves an arm out at the line of elves. “I am mortal. I have no business leading the Eldar to battle! I am … what have you been calling it? Sick? Weak?"

I brush a strand of hair from his face and adjust the set of Tuor’s armor. “You, weaker than us?” I smile. “That, my friend, is where you are wrong.”


End file.
